


star stuff

by worrylesswritemore



Series: Writing Raffle [1]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Astronomy, HIV/AIDS, M/M, also tbh there needs to be more smart!Whizzer content bc he is more than a pretty face, i use a lot of space term that I clearly have no understanding of, this follows the exact plot of Falsettos - except Whizzer is an astrophysicist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: Colliding galaxiesA galactic “car wreck” in which two galaxies pass close enough to gravitationally disrupt each other’s shape. The collision rips streamers of stars from the galaxies, fuels an explosion of star birth, and can ultimately result in both galaxies merging into one.





	star stuff

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my Writing Raffle 2nd Place Winner tumblr user @easeondown who requested Whizzvin with Whizzer as an astrophysicist.

**Gravity**

_A mutual physical force of nature that causes two bodies to attract each other._

Swishing his cocktail around with the neon pink straw, Whizzer sits daintily at the bar and feigns ignorance to the other man’s trained gaze on him. The straw beats against the rim of the glass pointedly, and he hopes that even from across the room, his admirer will notice that Whizzer’s drink looks awfully empty right now.

But he isn’t expecting much to come of it, really.  After all, the man—sat at the very corner of the club, bathed in shadow rather than pink strobe light, positioned rigid and alert—seems more like a  _watcher_ than a player. He’s the type that tries to remove himself from the  _context_  of his visit here, only wants to sit and watch the men and desperately pretend that he isn’t.

It’s pitiful, sure, but  _exasperating_. And Whizzer’s time is far too valuable to waste playing into some insecure man’s fantasy.

But.  _Still_. There’s something about him that makes Whizzer’s eyes flicker every once in awhile to that darkened corner, exasperated and annoyed but nonetheless— _curious_.

Whizzer has always been  _curious_. It’s the thing that’s always made him look up at the sky, trying to pin down and assert meaning to celestial bodies that of which that seem to defy mortal understanding. It’s the thing that makes him haunt gay bars and pick up men who are searching for the same understanding, for if they could not find it in the stars or arts or words, at least they could find a scrap of it in each other’s own celestial bodies.

Yes, Whizzer is  _curious_ —about the dark, the isolated, the  _unexplored_. And maybe that’s why he keeps looking over at the man, wasting his time, hoping against hope that he isn’t all that he appears to be. That maybe he’s the one tonight that Whizzer can find some semblance of hollow meaning within the crook of his neck or crevice of his body.

Or hell—maybe Whizzer’s just a little drunker than he gives himself credit for.

 _And just maybe,_ Whizzer muses to himself as he sees the darkened shadow of the man rise from his chair and walk into the light—heading straight for him,  _I’m not the only one curious and searching for meaning tonight._

The man is all lithe muscles and sharp angles, but it’s the way that he carries himself—confident, imposing,  _powerful_ —that makes him seem bigger than the entire room, that makes Whizzer glad that he looked twice.

He doesn’t bother with coyness or romanticism. He sits down in the seat next to him and asks bluntly, fishing out his wallet in an eyeroll-inducing,  _grandiose_  performance, “What’s your poison?”

But Whizzer likes the game of it all, so he gives the man a pointed, slow once-over, enunciating deliberately, “Handsome,  _devastating_ men.”

The man doesn’t pause in his motion of slapping a crisp five dollar bill on the table, but Whizzer is close enough to hear his breathing stutter and see his adam’s apple bob. And okay—maybe he is the one for tonight.

Whizzer lets the beat of silence settle and simmer before adding, “And a Manhattan.”

The man orders Whizzer a Manhattan and himself a whiskey (a generic “manly man” drink), but by the way his lips always twist each time he takes a sip, Whizzer supposes that even that choice is just part of the performance.

“I’m Marvin.” The man introduces himself finally, and his voice is only a little choked by the way that Whizzer has shamelessly laid a hand on his inner thigh.

Whizzer directs his hand to go even higher and doesn’t introduce himself until he’d made the man turn bright red, “Whizzer.” And then he asks, “Yours or mine?” He only asks to see his reaction, how Marvin immediately moves his hand away as if Whizzer hasn’t already noticed the tan line of a missing ring on one of his fingers.

Surprising no one, he says, “Yours.”

On the walk to Whizzer’s apartment (it being only a couple blocks away from the seedy, gay bar), Marvin stares unabashedly at the exposed planes of Whizzer’s skin while Whizzer tips his head up to the great beyond. He easily paints depth to the sky, tracing the celestial paths of stars and planets and anomalies. Many of his colleagues think of the sky as a window into the unattainable, but Whizzer has always thought of it as more of a map for uncharted territories not yet explored.

Marvin seems to grow agitated by the lack of attention and touches the crook of Whizzer’s elbow, bringing the man back down to Earth.

“The constellations are really beautiful tonight,” Marvin says  _knowingly_ , as if he arranged the stars there himself, “You see the Little Dipper?” He points to it, though he’s paying more attention to Whizzer’s facial expression than the stars themselves.

Because Whizzer just can’t help himself, he corrects him, “The Little Dipper isn’t a constellation.”

Marvin’s smug, eager-to-impress expression falters a little, replaced with defensiveness, “Yes, it is.”

“The Little Dipper is an  _asterism_ , which is just a group of stars.” Whizzer tells him, “That asterism is part of a constellation called Ursa Minor.”

Marvin doesn’t seem impressed by Whizzer’s knowledge. Really (and it makes Whizzer want to both laugh and sneer), he seems pathetically  _threatened_  by it.

His handsome face sours like a dry lemon, “Those are pretty big words for such a pretty face.” Whizzer debates on telling him but, for all the man’s superiority complex, he wonders if Marvin has even  _heard_  of an ‘astrophysicist.’

Instead, he plays coy, “What can I say? I’m a spaceman.”

Marvin continues to look unimpressed, even chuckles a little cruelly, “A  _spaceman_  named  _Whizzer,_ huh? Come on—Is there anything about you that’s real?”

Finally they get to Whizzer’s apartment complex, and Whizzer crowds him against the door, noticing how Marvin stiffens in fright when Whizzer leans in and kisses him right on the street corner—where anyone could see.

“Well, Baby,” Whizzer doesn’t see the harm in playing the role of dumb whore, if that’s what will help Whizzer get his rocks off quicker, “That’s what you’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

:: - ::

**Nadir**

_A point directly underneath an object or body._

Marvin looms over Whizzer, pins his wrists against the mattress, and thrusts even deeper into him. Whizzer buckles and sighs into Marvin’s mouth, pushes down and chases after him and repeats  _more more more more_.

When they’re finished, Marvin collapses on top of him, his ragged breathing tickling the sensitive skin on Whizzer’s neck. Marvin’s position leaves his naked shoulder vulnerable, so Whizzer bends his head down and bites down. He wildly expects to taste something new—something  _extraordinary_. He imagines the taste of a comet’s carbon or a red giant’s gaseous flames, but all he really gets is the saltiness of sweat.

Marvin, ignorant to Whizzer’s desire for meaning, just laughs it off, pulling teasingly at Whizzer’s hair and muttering, “Dick.”

Without warning or care, Marvin dislodges and collapses beside Whizzer on the bed, messy-haired and red-cheeked and bright-eyed. It’s been months since that first meeting at the bar, but Whizzer hasn’t grown bored of this man. Still transfixed in Marvin’s orbit, Whizzer studies the way his chest moves rhythmically up and down in the dim lighting of his bedroom.

He’s beautiful and devastating, and Whizzer knows a supernova when he sees one but he can’t for the life of him break the gravitational pull of their bodies.

“I’m gonna leave her.” Marvin tells Whizzer, after he gets his breathing back.

Whizzer’s heart stutters, but he keeps casual, playing dumb and indifferent, “Who?”

Marvin glances over and gives him an unamused look, clarifying needlessly, “Trina.”

Trina. Marvin’s  _wife_.

Whizzer knows that Marvin is gauging every twitch of his expression, so he keeps his face carefully blank as he says, “Just make sure you’re doing it for yourself.”  _Not for me._

“I am doing it for myself,” Marvin assures, threading their fingers together underneath the sheets, “But it’s  _because_  of you.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, trying but failing to suppress a smile, “Always gotta share the blame, don’t you?”

“Always, Spaceman.” Marvin confirms cheekily, squeezing Whizzer’s hand as he leans in and presses their lips together. The kiss is slow, easy, without purpose or means to an end. Whizzer finds the ease and tenderness of the contact addicting in a way that frightens him.

The kisses and gentle touches are over too soon as Marvin breaks away and gives him that same old apologetic look, “It’s late. I have to go.”

Whizzer doesn’t tell him goodbye as Marvin lets himself out of the apartment. Instead, Whizzer stares blankly at the ceiling, tracing mythical cosmic paths and asserting meaning into the cracks and waterstains.

:: - ::

**Binary**

_A system of two stars that revolve around a common center of gravity._

After the routinely tense, quiet charade of a ‘family dinner,’ Marvin and Jason migrate to the den for a meek game of half-hearted chess while Whizzer hangs back in the kitchen and rolls his sleeves up. At the sink, Trina scrubs the dishes with the vigor of a sexually frustrated virgin, and Whizzer momentarily thinks of making a joke of it before he realizes that Trina probably wouldn’t laugh. Worst case, she might even  _cry_ , and Whizzer is too tipsy on cheap wine to muster up any sort of genuine empathy and comfort.

Even though he’s done this for months and months—even before the divorce, Trina always seems surprised when he joins her at the sink.

With forced casualness (because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be truly comfortable around her, given their history and shared affiliation with a certain maniac), he reminds her, “It’s my turn to wash. You can dry.” He almost thinks he sees a twitch of a smile on her exhausted face before it settles back to stone.

Their routine is one of silence with sporadic attempts at cordial conversation. It’s comforting in a mind-numbing way that soothes the oncoming headache that these tense meals usually give him.

“I have a date with the psychiatrist tomorrow night.” Trina tells him suddenly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He wonders if she’s telling him this to make Marvin jealous (when Whizzer inevitably tells him one way or another) or if she’s still searching for any semblance of approval from any man in her life.

“That’s good,” Whizzer says noncommittally, the news unaffecting him, “Are you gonna screw him?”

Trina flushes at his vulgarity, and it makes him feel a little cruel and powerful.

“Yes. Well, I mean. Probably. Maybe.” Trina busies herself with the plate in her hands, “I don’t know.” Her voice has grown curt and anxious, as if she regrets even bringing it up. And for that reason, Whizzer should let it go.

But he doesn’t. Because honestly? It’s just too fucking funny.

“So, Marvin’s psychiatrist, huh?” Whizzer says, laughing a little, “Do you normally run in such tight circles or do you just really want Marvin to notice that you’ve started dating again?”

“This has nothing to do with Marvin.”

Whizzer narrows his eyes at her, makes a skeptical, derisive noise in the back of his throat, “We both know that that’s bullshit.”

Because nowadays, it seems like  _everything_  that they do, they do for  _Marvin_.

But strangely, Whizzer wants her denial to be true. He wants to believe that she’s finally doing something for  _herself_  and not for  _him_.

He wants to believe that she’s found a new center of gravity, if only for the fact that it gives him hope that he’ll find a new one soon, too.

:: - ::

**Chaos**

_A distinctive area of broken terrain._

Frustrated, Whizzer crosses out another line of calculations and rakes a hand over his face, causing his cheap, wire-framed glasses to mash against his skin. It’s  _wrong, wrong, wrong._ He messed up  _somewhere,_ he knows, but he can’t for the life of him find and correct the error. And now he has to wait another  _three fucking months_  before the same pattern co-aligns in the sky—just for  _some stupid fucking paper_  that doesn’t even matter at all, that no one except withered up nerds even glance over.

Whizzer distantly notices Marvin hovering in the doorframe of their living room,  _watching him_ , but he ignores him. He’s already nursing a migraine from the hours upon hours that he’s worked on this wasted trash of a study; he doesn’t have the energy to suit Marvin’s need for a fight or sex.

But Marvin doesn’t get the hint (or, more likely, he just disregards it), and so he says quietly, “Hey, Spaceman.”

“Leave me alone.” Whizzer says flatly, copying down a string of random numbers so Marvin will think he’s working (as if that will dissuade him when he wants something).

“Come on, tell me,” Marvin wheedles, walking over to stand at the back of the couch and massaging Whizzer’s tense, hunched shoulders, “What’s wrong? You still haven’t discovered a new planet yet?” Whizzer notices that Marvin is being extra  _sweet_  and  _doting_  today, most certainly due to the hours-long, godawful fight that they’d had last night that left glass shattered and doorframes splintered.

It’s a maddening cycle. Marvin or Whizzer will pick a fight, and it either ends with rough, desperate, hollow sex or an icy, numbing silence that’s getting harder and harder to thaw. Used to, back when this whole thing began, their fights ended with the former, but nowadays, they’re losing everything they’ve built together to frostbite.

“You don’t get it, and I don’t want to explain it to you.” Whizzer says, though the real answer is  _You don’t get it, and you won’t let me explain it to you._

Because Whizzer could never be  _as_  smart or, god forbid,  _smarter_ than Marvin— _oh no, of course not_. Because that somehow makes Marvin less of a  _man_ , and it’s fine and dandy if  _Whizzer’s_  self-concept is shot to hell so long as Marvin feels  _secure and comfortable._

It used to not bother him—to play the role of dumb whore. But a lot of things get fucking old after a long while.

“What’s to get?” Marvin asks, and Whizzer hates how his words make him tense but his skilled, kneading fingers make him buckle and relax, “I know the basics—stars and planets and comets and blah blah blah. Just start talking, and I’m sure I can figure it out. Hell, maybe you need a pair of fresh eyes on it.”

Whizzer feels a sickening sense of anger and loathing, “You think you’re being  _cute_ , don’t you?”

Marvin continues to massage his shoulders and it overwhelmingly disgusts Whizzer when he doesn’t even seem to realize his own inflated arrogance, kissing the side of Whizzer’s neck and mumbling against his skin, “Yes.”

Whizzer finally shakes him off of him, saying briskly, “Well, you’re not. You’re being a  _condescending asshole.”_

His sudden surge of ice and anger seems to surprise Marvin, and he replies after a beat, defensive and hurt, “Whizzer, I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, you  _can’t_ , okay?” Whizzer bites out, suddenly so angry and disgusted and  _tired_ —fuck, he didn’t even realize he was just so  _tired_  of it all, “You can’t  _fix_  everything, Marvin, alright? You’re not right all the time, and you don’t know everything. Jesus, you must  _realize_  that, don’t you? Or are you that fucking self-deluded?”

The hurt, astonished look fades from Marvin’s face, and Whizzer feels a faint flicker of fear lick down his spine. Whizzer is never one to forget that Marvin is composed of material of which is indicative of a cryovolcano— _ice_  and  _violence_.

And it’s not like Marvin has ever laid a fucking hand on him (Whizzer is gone the second after that happens, thank you very much), but that doesn’t mean shit, right? Because maybe, just maybe, Whizzer just hasn’t seen Marvin at his peak of rage, hasn’t made him angry enough to do it just yet.

But Marvin—blank-faced, dark-eyed—doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move toward him. Instead, like the  _coward_  that they both know that he is, he turns around and stalks off, slamming the door on his way out of the apartment.

Whizzer thinks that this was a  _victory_  on his part, that he should feel like a  _winner_.

But he doesn’t. He’s frustrated and angry and sad and alone.

:: - ::

**Supernova**

_The explosion of a star._

When Marvin thrusts that suitcase against Whizzer’s chest, the momentum knocks Whizzer off his axis, has him torn out of Marvin’s orbit, has him lost and alone and hurdling into the cold isolation of space.

:: - ::

**Apastron**

_The point of greatest separation of two stars._

Whizzer keeps in touch with Jason. He meets the kid after school every once in awhile at Central Park, toting a baseball and two mitts.

Whizzer likes to pretend that it’s a favor to  _Jason_ , to help out his baseball playing because Marvin sure as hell isn’t even bothering to try, but really it’s a favor to  _Whizzer_  more than anything. Jason is his connection to the tight-knit family that he had wasted nearly a year of his life on, to the possibility of a family at all, to the  _what if_ ’s that plague him at night.  _What if Whizzer had stayed? What if Whizzer had left sooner? What if Whizzer came back?_

After the particularly disastrous attempt at catch, Jason offhandedly fills him in on what’s going on—Trina and Mendel are on an exercise and dieting kick, his Bar Mitzvah is imminent, Heather Levin said hi to him in the hallway in passing…

And every time, Jason makes Whizzer swallow his pride and ask, “How’s Marvin?” Because yeah, he still cares about him. It’s been two years, and most days, looking back on it, his time with Marvin just feels like a fever dream—wild and delirious and exhilarating and disorienting.

But. It doesn’t change the fact that Whizzer still cares—will  _always_ still care—about him, even if it is just in an abstract sorta way. Even during the horrible, overwhelming  _everything_  and the subsequent two years of  _nothing_ , Whizzer has always wanted Marvin to be happy. Of course, Whizzer would never exchange  _his own_  happiness for Marvin’s, but that doesn’t mean that he wants Marvin to be miserable regardless. He’s not that cruel.

“Weirdly happy, actually,” Jason says, surprising Whizzer, “This whole Bar Mitzvah thing has really excited him. It’s kinda embarrassing, if I’m being honest.”

Whizzer finds himself smiling, only a touch of melancholy and bitterness gracing his tone as he admits, “That’s good. I’m glad he’s—getting better.”  _Getting over me._  But that’s not quite true, is it? Whizzer wouldn’t call this hollow feeling  _gladness_.

Jason apparently sees something in the twist of Whizzer’s mouth because he says quite abruptly, “You should go to my baseball game this Sunday.”

And Whizzer thinks about all those  _what if_ ’s and nearly chokes on them.

“I’ll think about it.” Whizzer says, even though he’s already made up his mind.

:: - ::

**Tidal Force**

_The differential gravitational pull exerted on any extended body within the gravitational field of another body._

This day is going to be about  _Jason_. This is not about seeing Marvin again for the first time in two years. This is not about looking great and fit and getting silent revenge on Marvin for kicking him out. This is not about casually dropping in and seeing if Marvin is happy, if he’s eating well, if he still misses him at all.  _This is not about Marvin. This is not about Marvin. Not everything has to be about Marvin._

But Whizzer forgets this mantra the second that he catches sight of the man—horribly dressed, face flushed, hiding behind an unamused woman. And fuck, it’s just like looking at the moon, a looming titan with depth and luminosity and ethereality and  _tangibility_ , as if Whizzer could just reach up and touch it—

Inside his jacket pockets, Whizzer’s hands twitch, and he’s thankful that no one notices his momentary weakness.

Whizzer tries to make this visit only about Jason, but then Marvin makes him sit in front of him and he keeps playing with his hair in a way that reminds Whizzer of better nights of soft touches and sleepy laughter. And Whizzer feels himself being pulled back into Marvin’s orbit, kicking and screaming.

Marvin asks, “Would it be possible to  _see_  you—or to  _kiss_  you—or to give you a  _call_?” And he’s looking at Whizzer like he holds the galaxies at his fingertips, and Whizzer can’t stop staring at Marvin’s lips, wondering if he could ever find  _new_  meaning in a familiar body.

Whizzer nods and knowingly sets himself up to implode.

:: - ::

**Active galactic nuclei**

_A region in the center of a galaxy that has a higher than normal brightness._

Weeks later, they’re lying in bed, and Whizzer knows that this is just an average day with the Earth spinning on its axis and the sun being the center of the galaxy, but right now—in this bed, under these sheets, with Marvin pressed against his body—it feels like they’re on another plane of existence.

It’s a lazy Wednesday evening, one that is full of good-natured teasing and soft touches and kisses without a purpose or means to an end.

Marvin’s grip around Whizzer tightens, and he breathes pleading, goading words into his hair, “Come on, Spaceman. Tell me about the star stuff again.” And he isn’t derisive, he isn’t rude. He seems genuinely— _curious_.

And so Whizzer does. He explains that the iron in their blood and the calcium in their teeth and the carbon in their very genes were produced billions of years ago inside a red giant of gaseous flames. He goes on a tangent about how the water in their skin is that the same of the frozen water which makes up a comet. He theorizes that everything is celestial in its own right, with its own  _meaning_. He describes the star stuff that weaves the galaxy together, just as it threads DNA.

Kissing his neck, Whizzer runs a hand through Marvin’s curled, mussed hair, twisting the strands and listing, “These would be comet tails.” He licks a pocket of sweat from Marvin’s collarbone, continuing, “This is space dust.” He prods at a collection of freckles at Marvin’s inner thigh, naming, “Nebulas.”

Marvin smiles and kisses Whizzer, but rather than doing so just to shut him up (like he wildly expects), Marvin pulls back a little and requests softly, kind and patient, “Tell me more.”

:: - ::

**Dark Matter**

_Matter in the universe that cannot be seen, but can be detected by its gravitational effects on other bodies_

Of course he’d heard about it—before it happened to him. Even if he hadn’t been listening to Charlotte’s rants of fear and anxiety and confusion, Whizzer sure as hell noticed many of his friends—once laughing, happy,  _healthy_ —soon wither in a way that defies science, that defies  _humanity_.

When Whizzer starts to feel more tired than usual, he blames it on his chaotic work schedule.

When Whizzer begins losing weight, he blames it on his working-too-well metabolism.

When Whizzer collapses on that racquetball court, he blames it on the only celestial body that he doesn’t even believe in anymore—not since he was a kid.

“What does it look like?” Whizzer asks Charlotte, and at her blank look, he clarifies dryly, “My murderer.”

The stone in her face shatters before she hurriedly pastes it all back together again, “We don’t know for sure, really. We just know what it makes others look like.”

“Death.” Whizzer answers, looking at his reflection of hollow eyes and hollow cheeks, “It makes us look like death.”

:: - ::

**Event Horizon**

_The invisible boundary around a black hole past which nothing can escape the gravitational pull—not even light_.

He tries to warn them all away, but they all gravitate toward him. Even though all he does is  _take and take and take._

 _Trina_. Whizzer took her man and way of life away and forced her to live a life of unconvention and chaos where she now comforts the man who took everything from her.

 _Mendel._  Whizzer took his blind optimism away as he now tries to stay up later and later in order to solve a problem that doesn’t have a solution yet.

 _Charlotte and Cordelia._  Whizzer took their bliss and ignorance away as Charlotte now leaves the hospital with a bitter taste in her mouth and Cordelia bakes and bakes only to keep herself from screaming.

 _Jason._  Whizzer took his moment of Becoming a Man away and made it all about him.

 _Marvin._  Whizzer took his…Whizzer took his… _Whizzer took his…_

:: - ::

**Accretion disks**

_When material is transferred from one celestial object to another._

Marvin stares at him, god-smacked, with a look of horror and despondency, “She told you?” He speaks of it like he’s been betrayed by the  _doctor_  rather than his  _lover._

“Charlotte didn’t have to tell me,” Whizzer says lowly, because if he raised his voice anymore, he knows that it will break, “Marvin, look at yourself.”

The loose clothes, the discoloration of skin, the rattling cough.

“I’m fine. She said that they caught it early,” Marvin says, painting on that stupid, optimistic,  _fake_  smile of his, “I’ll be alright.” But Whizzer’s face is already crumbling, and Marvin rushes to his hospital bed, tries to pull him close as Whizzer shoves him away with all the weak force he has left.

 _“Don’t touch me._  I’ve already infected you enough.”

“Whizzer, stop it. Don’t say—“

“I  _ruined_  you, Marvin.”

“You  _saved_  me—a million times over.” Marvin threads their hands together, and the touch feels hot and explosive—like they’re holding an entire star system together, “Who would I have been without my spaceman?”

Desperate, Whizzer kisses him, and he finally finds the meaning that he’s been searching for.

:: - ::

**Colliding galaxies**

_A galactic “car wreck” in which two galaxies pass close enough to gravitationally disrupt each other’s shape. The collision rips streamers of stars from the galaxies, fuels an explosion of star birth, and can ultimately result in both galaxies merging into one._

Marvin wheels Whizzer to the window in his hospital room, and it’s a pretty shit view but Whizzer can still make out a sparse collection of stars splattered across the night sky. Behind him, Marvin massages his bony shoulders, kisses his hairline, and requests softly, kind and patient, “Tell me about the star stuff.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @moreracquetball


End file.
